The MiltonFreewater Affair
by ardavenport-tlneill
Summary: Illya and Napoleon, on a simple assignment to eastern Oregon as a favor to the UNCLE Portland office, are pursued by Thrush leftover from their last assignment. But their 'relative' and the 'fowl' in Milton-Freewater have a very different relationship.
1. Chapter 1

**THE MILTON-FREEWATER AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**= = = Act 1 : "I'd like you to do me a favor..."**

* * *

"Does this hurt?" Napoleon inquired solicitously, prodding Illya's shoulder.

"Yes. It. Does." Illya informed him through clenched teeth. "Are you finished?"

Napoleon tossed him his shirt. "You'll live."

"Thank you for the insight," Illya responded dryly. "I would never have guessed."

"Agents Solo and Kuryakin report to Mr. Jorgenson's office at once, please," the intercom commanded politely.

Napoleon triggered the door, then stood waiting for his partner to shrug into his shirt. Illya followed, strapping his shoulder holster on as they walked down the hall of U.N.C.L.E. Portland, mindful of his wounded shoulder.

U.N.C.L.E. Portland was a newer installation than the New York facility. Chillier too, as the refrigeration units for a local ice rink were housed in the ceiling. The standard U.N.C.L.E. uniform was embellished by sweaters and jackets here. Napoleon was feeling the lack of one, but Illya seemed to be doing just fine. It must be his heritage, Napoleon thought to himself.

Jorgenson's office was the same as head U.N.C.L.E. offices all over the world.

" . . . thank you, Alex. Yes, I'll tell them." Jorgenson said into the microphone as the two agents walked into his office. "Jorgenson out. Sit down gentlemen," he offered, clipping the mike back in its stand. "That was your Mr. Waverly," he informed them. "He's given me permission to have you do me a little favor. I trust you're up to it?"

"I think we can handle anything that isn't too strenuous," Napoleon answered a little reluctantly. He was slightly dismayed that he and Illya were being loaned out on something, however minor, so soon after their last rather grueling assignment. Napoleon made a mental note to cancel his date with Sonja in New York that night. Illya sighed and hoped that they wouldn't have to drive all the way back across the country in the U.N.C.L.E. car. Once was enough.

"Good. Now that six of my agents are hospitalized, and several more are on curtailed duty, we're a bit short-handed. Alex has given his okay to have you give us a hand on your way out." he continued, spinning the table so that a file came to rest in front of Napoleon, "You're to check out some of our smaller operations around the state between here and Boise."

"Check them out, how?" inquired Illya reading over his partner's shoulder.

"Once a year we give the smaller Oregon operations a once-over. It's mostly a formality, any agent class three or higher can OK the report. What you'll need to do is check out operations procedures with the head agent, in the larger operations, and go over the yearly write-up. It takes a few hours in most cases. Less time for the single agent towns. I'd like you to start in The Dalles, then go on to Moro then Wasco and...well, it's all laid out in the file there."

Napoleon scanned the file. The assignment consisted of simple yearly reviews, the kind of thing he hadn't had to do in years. He might have pointed out to Jorgenson that he ought to assign some junior agents to the task, but then all of Portland's junior agents were in the hospital. He and Illya were really performing a good will gesture from the New York office to Portland.

"Alex wants you to leave the car in Boise. You can turn in your reports there too. You'll take a flight from Boise to New York. It should take you about two days." Jorgenson smiled. "Alex calls it a rest after this last arduous affair."

Napoleon and Illya glanced at each other. They'd encountered Mr. Waverly's idea of 'rest' before.

* * *

**= = = END Act 1**


	2. Chapter 2

**THE MILTON-FREEWATER AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**= = = Act 2 : "What have you been eating?"**

* * *

Early the next morning, Napoleon sat behind the wheel of the car and waited for Illya to join him. Illya did so in a short while, carrying two overnight bags, which he stowed in the back of the car before taking his place next to Solo in the passenger seat.

"Ready?" Napoleon inquired. At Illya's nod, he started the car and pulled smoothly out of the parking garage and turned left toward the highway. At the speed Napoleon drove, ignoring Illya's occasional disapproving glance at the speedometer, they reached The Dalles in a mere two hours.

The Dalles boasted one semi-full-time U.N.C.L.E. agent and one part-time agent. They didn't have all that much to do, judging from the reports, but the little they did went a long way. Some time last fall, Johnston and his part-time assistant, Jeff White, had double-handedly stopped a plot to freeze the Columbia River. The damage to Oregon and Washington's economy would have been incalculable. As it was, they were the only two people in the town, and now Napoleon and Illya, knew there had ever been a threat. It was for times like that that U.N.C.L.E. bothered to employ these small town agents.

In less than three hours, including lunch, they were back on the road, this time with Illya at the wheel. Next stop: Moro in Sherman county. Illya rather liked the names of the towns they were supposed to be visiting. They were much more interesting than names like Bucharest, Vienna, and Prague. This particular town, however, was harder to find.

"Napoleon, you've done it again, haven't you?" Illya complained after they'd been blindly driving down a nameless country highway for about fifteen minutes.

"Well, it's not very well marked," the American answered making loud rustling noises with the map that filled the cramped passenger side. He tried in vain to fold it down to a manageable size.

In another five minutes Illya pulled in at a small highway truck stop and opened his door.

"Excuse me," he called to a man lounging outside the service station. "Can you tell me the way to Moro?"

"No, it's today," the man answered with a smile.

Illya stared at him blankly. Napoleon was confused for a few seconds before he got the pun. He frowned knowingly, leaned across his partner and rephrased the question. This time, they got a reasonable list of directions. All through the exchange Illya looked back and forth from one to the other. He knew he'd missed something and was irritated that he couldn't figure out what.

Illya scowled at his partner as they drove out, but decided not to lower himself by asking what had happened.

Half an hour later, they passed a green and white sign saying "Entering Moro. Population 330". Illya glanced at the fuel gauge and pulled into the gas station conveniently in the middle of town. He opened his door and climbed out of the car. "Fill it up, please," he told the attendant who stood staring at the car. "With ethyl," Illya prompted. The man started and hurried to the gas pump.

Napoleon got out, closed the passenger door and headed for the men's room.

Illya walked around the car to stretch his legs, casually watching the attendant at his tasks and nodded politely at the man's praise of the car. There were no other people about except for what appeared to be an enormous gray dog walking two young girls at the end of the block. He could see them openly staring at the U.N.C.L.E. car. He sighed, resigned to the attention. He and Napoleon-and several other agents-had been forced to turn in bad reports on the usefulness of the car. It performed beautifully, fulfilled all its design requirements at or above standards, but it was about as inconspicuous as a pink tank. It was impossible to carry out any covert operations in the cars regardless of how useful they were. Illya supposed they would be phased out or reserved for places where unusual sports cars were not out of place, like the Rivera and Southern California. Finally, the cars would be sold to some eager collector so that U.N.C.L.E. could recoup some of their enormous expense.

The Russian ran a hand along the roof. He wouldn't miss the conspicuousness or the cramped interior, but the car's built-in defenses had come in handy on more than one occasion. He climbed in as Napoleon returned from the men's room and slid into the driver's seat. Illya left his door open, waiting for the attendant to return with his change.

He sensed motion on his right. Illya's hand on reflex reached for his U.N.C.L.E. Special but stopped when he found himself nose to nose with a shaggy gray dog's face looking down at him. He pulled away instinctively. The animal advanced, sniffing carefully and putting its paws up on the seat while its companions frantically pulled on its leash and cried, "NO, Kelly. DOWN, Kelly."

"What is it?"

"I don't know," Napoleon answered carefully. "But don't make it angry."

"Oh, it's an Irish Wolfhound," a young voice told him from behind the mountain of fur. Her voice took on a slightly expressionless quality that told both agents that she'd no doubt repeated this spiel many times. "They're the largest breed of dog in the world, and the reason the wolf is extinct in Ireland." She went on to say that the breed had nearly died out, but had been brought back single-handedly in the 1920's by an English dog breeder.

Illya thought that it could have passed for some revived prehistoric dog breed that was better off left extinct. The beast was certainly large enough; it was at least as tall as the roof of the U.N.C.L.E. car and maybe even an inch or two taller.

"I'm sure it's quite fascinating . . . hey!"

The dog, with no respect for a man's dignity, was poking his wet nose in Illya's lap. The two girls pulled hard on the collar and the heavy leather leash while Illya pulled away further, almost seating himself in Napoleon's lap.

The girls finally managed to extricate the dog from the car, with profuse apologies, and Illya closed the door. They waved to the two agents as the car pulled out and Illya raised a hand to wave back. The dog panted, it's long tongue hanging in the breeze.

They spent almost no time at the Moro grade school where Mr. Ward worked. The Moro agent had nothing to report except that he had nothing to report. Napoleon again took the wheel as they headed the short distance to Wasco.

"Wasco," Napoleon commented when they'd cleared the town. "Who names these places?"

"Probably named after the people who founded the towns. And there are people with some pretty funny names," Illya said with a sidelong glance at Napoleon. The American ignored him.

The visit to Wasco hadn't taken any longer than their visit to Moro and, to Illya's relief, there were no Irish Wolfhounds in Wasco. Their visit to Pendleton was also uneventful; and it was well into evening when Illya drove the car out of town.

Illya pulled the car into a truck stop/restaurant just outside Pendleton. They'd spent nearly two hours with the two U.N.C.L.E. men there, and they were both ready for dinner.

They took a table near the back and a waitress served them with menus, water and coffee. Napoleon read the menu unenthusiastically, decided to play it safe and ordered a hamburger. Illya was more brave and asked for a chili burger.

The diner was warm, rather busy and smelled like reheated leftovers. The patrons were a mixture of ranchers and truckers except for a large family that came in while they were eating.

Illya washed down the last of his chili burger with the last of his coffee, and waited for a break in the steady stream of traffic towards the bathroom. One of the boys from the family group came out and Illya seized his opportunity.

He pushed open the door, and something skidded across the floor. Illya looked down and saw the small toy car that had come to rest under the toilet, next to a radio-controlled bomb. Illya didn't stop to think of the implications, he exited the room barely ahead of the blast.

Napoleon hit the floor as an explosion tore through the diner from the direction Illya had just gone. Before it had properly died down, he was on his feet again, skirting rubble to check on his partner. Illya was lying hard up against the diner counter, covered with dust and pieces of wood and plaster from the ex-bathroom. Napoleon reached out to feel for a pulse, but Illya stirred, more stunned than unconscious. Napoleon carefully helped him to his feet and sat him down in the nearest undamaged chair.

"What have you been eating?" he asked with half a smile. Illya didn't answer. There was a squeal of tires in the parking lot. Napoleon glanced out the window in time to see a car turn onto the highway at a very high rate of speed. He couldn't even be sure of the make. "Are you alright?"

Illya cautiously tested his arms and legs. "I think so." He looked around the room. The screaming had died down and the manager was bearing down on them. To apologize, Illya hoped. "Let's get out of here," he said, trying to stand. Napoleon anticipated the unreliable condition of the Russian's legs and had an arm ready to support him. There was a load of adrenalin in Illya's bloodstream with no place to go.

"What happened here?" the manager demanded.

"Your men's room blew up, at a rough guess," Napoleon told him. "I'd call the fire department if I were you." He steered Illya towards the door.

"What about my place?"

"Call your insurance company," Napoleon suggested.

"What happened?" he asked, unlocking the passenger side of the car. Illya climbed stiffly in and leaned his head back, eyes closed, forcing his body to calm down.

"There was a bomb, radio-controlled, behind the toilet," Illya said.

"Nice of it to be left in plain sight."

"I don't think it was. I think one of the boys from that family moved it."

"I heard a car leaving the parking lot just after the explosion."

"We're not on an important assignment, Napoleon."

"Certainly not anything to get blown up about." Napoleon pulled out his communicator. "Open channel D, please."

"Channel D is open."

"Solo and Kuryakin here. Connect us with Mr. Waverly."

"Waverly here, Mr. Solo. I have just received a call from Mr. Jorgenson. Apparently we have two Thrush unaccounted for from your last assignment."

"Ah ha," Napoleon answered, understanding. Illya opened his eyes and looked at him. "I think we might have found them." He went on to give the details of his partner's close call. "Illya's alright, sir," he concluded. "But I think I'll be doing the driving for a while."

"The names of your explosion-happy friends are Jeffrey 'Boom- Boom' Hammond, the second-in-command of the Portland Satrap, and a low-level Thrush named Marlowe Lovejoy. Mr. Hammond has a predilection for explosives, and is no doubt the one who rigged Mr. Kuryakin's bomb."

"I assure you, it wasn't my bomb," Illya muttered softly so only Napoleon heard.

"I trust you gentlemen will be careful between now and when you arrive in Boise," Mr Waverly finished.

"Yes sir," Napoleon answered. "We'll keep you informed. Solo out."

"Napoleon," Illya said as the American put his communicator away. "How did they know we were here? No one followed us."

Napoleon stared thoughtfully at him, then at the car. "A tracer?" he ventured at last.

Illya gestured to the brightly lit truck stop across the parking lot. "Let's try over there."

"It's light enough right here." Napoleon pointed out.

"Yes, but I still have to go to the bathroom."

Napoleon found the tracer under the rear bumper just as Illya returned from his rudely interrupted mission. He held it out for the Russian to inspect.

"Directional," Illya observed. "And fairly powerful too."

"They couldn't have put it there while we were on the road. It must have been planted in Portland."

"Well, now that we've found it, what do we do with it?"

"Let's see what Mr. Jorgensen has to say about it." Napoleon pulled out his communicator. A short conference with the head of U.N.C.L.E. Portland confirmed what Mr. Waverly had told them. They were also informed that there were no agents available to help and they were to take care of the Thrush problem on their own.

"Thank you, sir," Napoleon signed off unenthusiastically.

"So, we're left to handle it on our own. Again." Illya resigned himself to their fate. "Any ideas?"

"Well, they think they're following us. Why don't we let them keep thinking that, for now?"

"And be waiting for them at the next town?"

"Something like that. What's our next stop?" Napoleon asked.

"Milton-Freewater. About twenty minutes' drive."

"Let's go."

The drive to Milton-Freewater was uneventful save that they were unable to contact the town's single agent, which was not surprising since she was only part-time. Charlotte Goldstein, the town's librarian, had been a trained office agent for four years in Chicago. Having grown tired of the big city she took the small-town assignment of keeping an eye on the town's single Thrush agent. Milton-Freewater contained no large scale world conquering operations, but Thrush provided some financial backing and support for a group of survivalists safely entrenched in a few private ranches. They were eagerly and morbidly waiting for the super powers to drop the Big One and Thrush wanted to have their foot in the door, just in case.

The two agents rolled into town and found the trailer home where Miss Goldstein lived. Except for a street light, the trailer was un-illuminated inside or out. They parked the car and made for the door. Illya pulled out his lock-pick as Napoleon reached around him and opened the unlocked door. Illya glanced at his partner, mildly annoyed before slipping in while Napoleon waited outside on the steps. He didn't take long.

The trailer was a very standard sample of rural living except for some very un-standard U.N.C.L.E. communications equipment. Illya thought that it was a bit too conspicuously placed on a bookshelf. The black metal box taking up half of an upper shelf wasn't too out of the ordinary except for the masking tape labels declaring 'U.N.C.L.E.', 'Portland/Jorgenson' and 'Channel D, F, L', etc. The undisguised microphone served as a bookend on an upper shelf. Illya noted it for his report. He expected better from Goldstein. The man in Pendleton had gone above-and-beyond-duty by disguising his equipment as a case of beer in his refrigerator. The microphone/message signal had been in a box of cereal.

Illya looked into the bedroom, spare room, bathroom and kitchen and found no one home.

"Nobody home?" Napoleon asked as Illya exited the trailer.

"Empty. I left a few lights on to make it look like . . . "

"Shh," Napoleon silenced him. They paused for several seconds. Illya heard crickets. "I thought I heard something."

"There's nothing there now."

"No, I suppose not." Napoleon pointed to a clump of trees and bushes. "We can wait for our friends over there."

"What do we do if Goldstein comes while we're waiting?" Illya asked as they crunched across the gravel.

"We can introduce her to Marlowe and 'Boom-Boom'."

They stamped out a semi-comfortable spot among the bushes and brambles and settled down to wait. Illya had never cared for such stake-outs: at night and outdoors with the dew forming in his socks. After a few moments he suddenly thought of something. "Napoleon, we're waiting for our two Thrushes to follow us here."

"Yes."

"And they've probably been following us all day, so they'd have a good idea what we've been doing."

"Yes," Napoleon agreed, not liking where this was leading to.

"So what's to keep them from having gotten here ahead of us?"

Napoleon paused trying to think of a really good reason with which to plug the rather glaring hole in their plan. But if Boom-Boom had been second-in-command of Thrush Portland, he'd certainly know where U.N.C.L.E. agents were stationed in Oregon. And from the rather obvious stops they'd been making, anyone following . . .

"Brilliant deduction, gentlemen," came a voice from behind, accompanied by a flashlight beam and a cocked pistol. "No, don't turn around. Straight ahead, please. Let's take this out in the open."

Napoleon and Illya stopped near the center of the gravel clearing in front of Goldstein's trailer, and turned around on command. "Alright, Lovejoy, get their guns," the leader ordered. A very medium man-medium height, medium weight, medium brown curly hair-stepped forward and relieved them of their pistols.

The leader, 'Boom-Boom,' was tall-slightly over six feet-with thinning blond hair and spoke with a midwestern accent. There was a third man off to one side holding a standard model Thrush rifle on them. Either their pursuers had gotten reinforcements from somewhere, or the Portland office had overlooked another Thrush survivor.

"You two have caused me quite a lot of trouble," Hammond told them. "I'm going to enjoy this. How would you like to go, Solo?" he asked with an evil smile.

"How about with you in custody. You could give yourselves up. I doubt that you're in very good standing with Thrush Central anymore," Napoleon answered lightly.

"That's not on the bill, Solo. Thanks to you and Blondie there, I've got a pretty big ax to grind. One bomb between you and your partner and there won't be enough left to fill an envelope back to Waverly."

"Why not?" Napoleon agreed. "Go out with a bang, as they say. After losing the whole Satrap in Portland, you might as well enjoy what life is left you. Thrush justice is usually swift and rather painful, if I remember correctly."

Napoleon's words finally had the desired effect, and the man with the Thrush rifle started to look at his two companions nervously. He was a stocky, smallish thug with a receding hairline and just bright enough to see what was being implied.

Illya picked up the ball. "Yes, savor our deaths now. If you're lucky, Thrush might be merciful and quick when they catch up with the three of you."

The man with the rifle gulped visibly and edged away from his comrades. He had his mouth open to speak when they were interrupted by the sound of a motor. The distraction was enough for the two U.N.C.L.E. agents. They each jumped a man while the one with the rifle dithered, not sure if he should help or run.

Illya struggled with Lovejoy who dropped the U.N.C.L.E. Specials and tried to shoot his attacker with his own pistol before they both went down. Napoleon wrestled with Hammond in a classic battle with both men's hands wrapped around the same gun. Hammond's pistol slid dangerously close to Napoleon's temple. The engine in the distance roared and approached rapidly. Headlights swept across the fighters and zeroed in on the two rolling on the gravel.

Napoleon wrenched hard on Hammond's wrists and was rewarded by a cry. The gun dropped. Napoleon kicked it away and shoved his opponent to the ground. Illya and his man froze in the light of the onrushing headlights. Then, simultaneously forgetting both their fight and the guns, they rolled apart, out of the way of the speeding pick-up truck.

Lovejoy gave up the fort and ran for the safety of the trees where the man with the rifle was already heading. Hammond cursed and followed.

The truck braked and turned.

"Get in back!" the woman at the wheel yelled. Needing no encouragement, Napoleon jumped; Illya scrambled after him with their guns. The truck accelerated away from the scene of battle. Bullets whizzed past them, one of them cracking the rear window. Illya and Napoleon fired back at the two crouched in the bushes. Napoleon saw the one with the rifle take a wavering aim at them before he tripped and fell on the two in front of him. The truck suddenly swerved forcing Napoleon to grab the side for support. Illya went down entirely, rolling onto his back.

The truck sped away bouncing its passengers unmercifully on the dirt road. It finally stopped under a streetlight on a paved street closer into town. The two got out of the back while the driver stepped out of the truck. She was rather average with wavy, shoulder-length brown hair; she wore slacks and looked about twenty pounds overweight. She also didn't have much of a figure but she was very busty as the straining buttons on the front of her blouse advertised. Napoleon quickly took his eyes off her buttons when she began to speak.

"Umm, ah," she began. "You're okay, aren't you?"

"More or less," Napoleon answered. "We're in your debt. Thank you very much." Napoleon looked at Illya; Illya shrugged back.

"Well, I guess it was in the line of duty and all that." She suddenly straightened up and nervously stuck out her hand. "Hi, I'm Charlotte Goldstein."

* * *

**= = = END Act 2**


	3. Chapter 3

**THE MILTON-FREEWATER AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**= = = Act 3 : "So we have a lapsed Thrush on our hands."**

* * *

The conversation remained casual while the three drove back to Charlotte's trailer: U.N.C.L.E., bombs and Thrush in general.

No one started shooting from the bushes as a rather nervous Charlotte drove up her driveway. She parked the truck next to the U.N.C.L.E. car and stood watching as Illya inspected it for any explosive or otherwise fatal booby-traps.

"People are going to be coming around here wondering what all the shooting was about," Charlotte cautioned. "Somebody's probably already called Sheriff Kune."

"I'm sure we'll be able to come up with a plausible explanation." Napoleon told her. He followed Illya around to the other side of the car.

"I dunno about this," she answered unenthusiastically.

"There's nothing here." Illya stood from looking under the car and brushed the dust from his trousers.

"Well if they wanted to leave a surprise for us with the car they would have done so before now." Napoleon turned back to the trailer sitting quietly in the shadows.

"The trailer?" Illya suggested.

"Hmm. That noise I thought I heard while we were on the steps could have been Boom-Boom leaving behind a calling card. We might have interrupted him."

"We can stay away from the trailer until we catch up with our feathered friends."

"What?" Charlotte objected loudly in an octave higher than what she normally used. "I happen to live there, y'know. What do you expect me to do?"

"Well, you must have friends in town you can stay with," Napoleon replied reasonably.

"At this hour of the night?" she protested. "Besides, people don't just go around blowing up houses."

"Not any more than they blow up bathrooms in truck stops," Napoleon told her.

"What?"

"Please, Napoleon, the bruises haven't even had a chance to form. If you must give Miss Goldstein the gruesome details, wait until I'm not here to hear about it."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Very," Napoleon replied. "Are you sure there isn't some place you can stay for a day or two?"

"I'll get my things." She headed for her trailer.

"Wait!" Napoleon ran to stop her, catching her arm. The trailer went up in a fiery ball rising up into the night sky. Napoleon threw himself to the ground, dragging Charlotte with him. Illya disappeared behind the U.N.C.L.E. car. Napoleon heard another car drive up.

"Miss Goldstein!" a man's voice called. Napoleon and Charlotte were just picking themselves up as Sheriff Kune came running.

"Miss Goldstein," the Sherrif was tall and thin with curly brown hair and a big nose. "Are you alright?"

"Uh, yes," she answered.

He turned back and squinted at the crackling, burning trailer. "Look at that," he said in awe. "Now what d'you suppose did that?"

"Perhaps you left the gas on," Illya suggested coming back around the car. "When you get enough of a gas build-up . . . Boom!"

"Boom," echoed Napoleon with a glance at his partner.

Miss Goldstein stared heedlessly at the flaming remains of her home. Napoleon scanned the nearby bushes a bit anxiously. Off in the distance he heard a car start up and relaxed slightly.

"No gas service out here," the sheriff said, noticing the two strangers. "Miss Goldstein, these two friends of yours?"

"Hm?" she asked, tearing her eyes away from the scene of destruction. "Oh, uh, yes. They're, uh, cousins." Numbed by the sudden destruction of all her worldly possessions, she was low on imagination and so relied on one of U.N.C.L.E.'s oldest cover stories.

Sherriff Kune smiled and greeted them. "Well, pleased to meet you, ah Mr . . . ?"

"Napoleon Solo." Napoleon shook Kune's hand. 'Any friend of Charlotte's . . . ,' the agent reflected to himself.

"Illya Kuryakin," Illya responded in turn. ' . . . is an U.N.C.L.E. of ours,' he thought.

Sheriff Kune's smile faded a tiny bit. The old 'my long lost aunt, uncle, cousin, relative-in-general' line was wearing a little thin.

"We'll leave the investigation in your capable hands." Napoleon told him, guiding Charlotte to the U.N.C.L.E. car. "Right now I think Miss Goldstein could use a rest."

"'Course, a'course," the sheriff agreed. "I've already called the fire department; called 'em on the radio as I was driving up, so don't worry about a thing Miss Goldstein. You take her along to Jennie Foster's place on Oak Street. First house on your left. It's yellow. Where y'all staying?"

Napoleon glanced at Illya, who shrugged slightly in return. "Well, we hadn't actually gotten that far. Miss Goldstein was going to show us someplace . . . "

"The motel," Charlotte responded for them.

"I'll get in touch with you when this is all settled then." He started to turn away but stopped. "Say, is Bernie coming back here for his truck?" He pointed at the vehicle they'd arrived in.

"Oh, I think so," Charlotte responded in a quavering voice. "I think he was going to pick it up sometime tomorrow or something."

"Well he can't leave it here. It'll get in the way."

"The keys are in it. He won't mind if you just move it until he comes back."

"I oughta' just call . . . ,"

"Oh, no," Charlotte stopped Kune from going back to his car. "I think his grandmother's having trouble with her hip again. He probably couldn't leave the house anyway. You can just move it over there." She pointed to a distant spot of gravel. Napoleon looked like he was going to say something but Charlotte repeated, "He can come by and get it in the morning."

"Well, if he can't come out . . . " The sheriff trotted around to the offending truck and got in. "But you give him the message to come get it as soon as he can."

"I will," she promised and got into the U.N.C.L.E. car with Napoleon and Illya. Charlotte kept her hands clasped firmly in her lap and concentrated on not moving around too much for fear of squashing Illya, whose lap she occupied. Illya didn't say very much and kept his hands to himself.

"Perhaps we should have offered to take Bernie's truck home for him," he commented.

"No, we couldn't have done that," Charlotte responded immediately.

"Bernie doesn't like you driving his truck?" Napoleon asked.

"We can't go to Bernie's house."

Illya thought to himself that there was really no reason why they had to take the truck back to Bernie's house when they only needed to use it to get to the motel. There was no good reason for an overweight woman to be sitting on his bruises. He supposed that it was just fate.

"Oh?" Napoleon questioned.

"That's probably where those two Thrush guys went to," she admitted.

"I see. I take it this Bernie entertains Thrush on a regular basis. Is he anybody we know?"

"He was the kind of short, average one with the Thrush rifle."

Silence reigned while the two agents digested this bit of information.

Napoleon spoke up first.

"Ah, Charlotte, maybe you should tell us a little bit more about this Bernie person."

"Skinner. His name is Bernie Skinner. Turn right at this corner," she directed.

Napoleon and Illya listened attentively as Charlotte gave directions and told them about U.N.C.L.E./Thrush relations in Milton- Freewater.

"You were at Bernie's house?" Illya asked in surprise.

"We were playing games on the computer when those two came in and told Bernie's grandmother that they were Thrush and they needed Bernie to go after some U.N.C.L.E. agents."

"So they saw you?" Napoleon asked.

"No, we were in the basement. Bernie went upstairs to talk to them."

"You were playing games on the computer? A _Thrush_ computer?" Illya asked.

"Uh, yeah. Bernie's got a terminal. I know I should have mentioned it in my last report, but if I did they might tell me to do something about it and if I did then Thrush'd probably have Bernie killed and I couldn't do that to Bernie." she finished plaintively.

Napoleon treated her to another round of silence so, knowing that her loyalties were in question, she filled in the void.

"It's not Bernie's fault that he's Thrush. It's in his family. He's Thrush like . . . like people are Jewish."

"So, it not being his fault, you decided to call a truce," Napoleon concluded."

"Uh, yeah. He's not a bad guy and he's kind of lapse about the Thrush business."

"So, we have a lapsed Thrush on our hands," Illya said to the back of Charlotte's neck.

"He didn't look very lapsed to me," Napoleon commented. "Lapse I'll grant you, but not lapsed."

"Shooting with the best of them," Illya added.

"And tripping over his own feet."

"He did it to spoil their aim," Charlotte insisted.

Napoleon and Illya let the subject drop. They left Miss Goldstein at her friend's house after agreeing to pick her back up before breakfast the next day.

* * *

**= = = END Act 3**


	4. Chapter 4

**THE MILTON-FREEWATER AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**= = = Act 4 : "They're planting bombs, all over town."**

* * *

The motel was clean and comfortable. Illya appropriated the bath and soaked. Napoleon could take a shower in the morning.

"I think a visit to Bernie's house is definitely in order," Napoleon said from the other side of the partly open bathroom door.

"Preferably when Boom-Boom and Marlowe aren't there." Illya wrung out a wash cloth and draped it over an exposed bruise. "What are we going to do about Miss Goldstein?"

No answer.

"Napoleon?"

"I'm thinking. She certainly has unusual taste in boyfriends."

"We don't know that for sure," Illya called back.

"It seems rather obvious that they have some kind of rapport." Napoleon idly thumbed through The Song of Solomon in the Gideon Bible, looking for pictures. "We may not be able to rely on her."

"I'll be sure to relay that message to Helena Thomas, Serena, Angelique and that blonde in Cairo next time we meet."

Napoleon flinched inwardly, annoyed at Illya's reminder of his previous indiscretions with attractive Thrush beauties. He tossed the Bible aside. "I didn't say she was utterly untrustworthy."

"You should know," Illya answered, enjoying himself, smiling in the bath where Napoleon couldn't see him.

"I think I'll go to bed now." Napoleon began taking off his shoes. "Don't stay up too late; we want to get an early start tomorrow. And don't drip on the carpet when you get out."

* * *

**= O = O = O = O =**

Early next morning the U.N.C.L.E. car drove up to the Skinner residence, a white, two-story house surrounded by locust trees. Three people pried themselves out of the car. Two of them walked up to the porch while the third crept into the bushes along the side of the house. Charlotte rang the doorbell.

"Oh hello, dearie!" An older woman about Napoleon's height greeted them and invited them in. Charlotte made the introductions and they strolled into the living room. Except for her slow walk, Napoleon noted, she was in good condition.

"I'm sorry. Bernie isn't in yet, dear. I fixed a nice breakfast for him and his friends but they haven't come back yet." Mrs. Skinner pulled Charlotte aside. "Thrush business," she whispered conspiratorially while Napoleon pretended to examine the knick-knacks on an end table.

A slender tabby cat wound itself around his ankles whenever he stood still. "They've been out all night and I'm not sure when they'll be back . . . " Her voice trailed off as Napoleon seemed to be taking an interest in the conversation. "I have a charming idea. Since Bernie and his friends probably won't be in, why don't you and your nice friend here have breakfast with me?"

"We'd be delighted," Napoleon accepted gracefully.

Illya, having finished his investigation of the yard, searched for a likely way to break in. He found a suitable basement window and made his entrance climbing down to stand on top of a washing machine stuck in the corner of a large, but incredibly cluttered room. It was filled with boxes of junk, old furniture and useless lumber.

Jumpin off the washing machine, he prowled about with gun drawn. When nothing sprang out at him, he holstered the weapon and went looking through the other rooms.

He discovered nothing save more rooms full of junk and one locked door. His handy lock-pick took care of that barrier. Next to several more boxes of old clothes he found a very standard Thrush computer terminal. The table it sat on was cluttered with local maps, game score sheets and manuals. He thumbed through them noting that Bernie wasn't privy to any very important information. He found the 'Games' section and read on. Instructions were included for such diversions as 'Shoot the U.N.C.L.E. Agent,' 'Assassinate Mr. Waverly,' 'World Domination' and 'Tic Tack Toe.' The rules for 'Anarchy on the High Seas' were particularly entertaining. Illya spent a minute perusing the contents of the manual before putting it aside and getting back to business.

Above in the dining room Napoleon dined on ham, eggs, pancakes, toast and jam, coffee and fresh milk, all served on Thrush china. A lovely floral pattern that included the Thrush bird decorated the edges and centers of the plates, saucers and cups. The silverware (Solo noted that it was real silver) and glasses were similarly monogrammed. Even the tablecloth was embossed with Thrushes. Napoleon ate sparingly and concentrated on being charming to Mrs. Skinner. Charlotte lamely contributed to the small talk and squirmed in her seat.

A cat yowled, 'I'm being stepped on!', and a gray tabby streak bolted through the dining room. The sound of jostled furniture followed the cat. Illya appeared, a little sheepishly, in the doorway. Mrs. Skinner abruptly put her coffee cup down and stared at the sudden house guest. Napoleon came to his partner's rescue.

"Mrs. Skinner, I don't think I've introduced my associate, Illya Kuryakin." Napoleon signaled to him with a beckoning finger. Illya stepped forward warily. "I hope you'll forgive my friend. He has a basically suspicious nature. He has a phobia about entering houses through the front door," Napoleon apologized to his hostess. "He had a very insecure childhood."

"Oh." Mrs Skinner looked at the blonde as he took a seat at the table. "Kuryakin? You're Russian then?" she inquired.

"Uh, yes Ma'am," Illya answered.

"Oh, well that explains it." She tossed the matter off, filled a plate with food and passed it on. Illya frowned at Napoleon. Napoleon smiled back and restarted the interrupted conversation.

Illya contributed very little to the small talk; mostly he just ate. Napoleon wondered when he'd notice the cutlery and the dishes. They were casually discussing Bernie's 'friends' at the survivalists' ranch when Illya got to the end of his first helping. He dropped his fork loudly and stared at the uncovered Thrush on his plate. Slowly he looked up and peered at the rest of the breakfast ware. Napoleon leaned his chin on his hand, covering a smile and cleared his throat to keep from laughing.

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Kuryakin?" Mrs. Skinner asked.

Napoleon didn't think he could bear to watch his partner make excuses with his mouth full of food, so he spoke up for him.

"I think he's still hungry." He reached across the table, scooped up the plate and covered the offending monogram with a second helping. Illya frowned again and resumed eating.

"Charlotte, dear, you really are worrying me." Mrs. Skinner paused just long enough for Charlotte to get flustered. "Bringing such a suave gentleman like Mr. Solo here when my Bernie isn't even around to defend himself."

Charlotte blushed. "Really Mrs. Skinner, Napoleon's just a friend."

"A cousin? At least that's what I heard from Sheriff Kune."

"You heard about that?" Charlotte asked in a small voice.

"Dear, your trailer blew up at 9:31 PM last night. I dare say the whole county knew about it within the hour."

"I suppose so. But you didn't say anything."

"Well, why should I? You know that my home is always open to you. You could have the spare room upstairs if you like. The one right next to Bernie's room." Charlotte smiled nervously. "Besides, talk of bombs and explosions is such an unsettling thing to start the morning with. Don't you agree, Mr. Solo?"

Oh, absolute . . . ly," Napoleon answered automatically before he realized what he was agreeing to. Mrs. Skinner beamed back at him. Illya stopped eating.

"Surely you didn't think I thought you two were barbed wire salesmen. I've been inactive for 30 years, but I haven't completely lost it," she told them. "I must say that you're a cut above those two goons who came calling last night, Mr. Solo. Even your friend here has more savoir-faire than they did. Why did they blow up your trailer, Charlotte?"

Charlotte looked to Illya and Napoleon for help. The cat meowed loudly in the kitchen.

"Ah . . . I think you have the advantage, Mrs. Skinner," Napoleon admitted.

"You obviously have some connection with Mr. Hammond and Mr. Lovejoy; not a friendly one I should think. The question is, 'where are you from?' Thrush Central perhaps? Come to collect a couple of renegades?"

Illya's head came up and he quietly rose and walked to the kitchen door. Napoleon held up a hand to forestall any questions, having heard the same sound that Illya had. The Russian jerked the door open and their portly, rifle-bearing adversary of the night before stumbled into the room.

"Bernie!" Charlotte exclaimed.

"Bernard Skinner," his grandmother scolded. "What are you doing skulking about in the kitchen? Come in here and sit down." Bernie obediently complied.

"That's a good question, Bernie," Napoleon said. "What are you doing skulking about in the kitchen?"

Bernie looked a bit helplessly from Illya, standing silently behind him, to Napoleon and lastly to Charlotte who looked at him questioningly. He sighed. "I was trying to warn you," he told her.

"About what?" Illya inquired.

"About Mr. Hammond and Marlowe."

"Go on, Bernie," Charlotte urged. "What about them?"

Bernie squirmed uncomfortably in his chair under Illya's scrutiny. "We were out all night," he began. "They said they needed some help, and I couldn't just leave after I found out what they were doing! They would have killed me!"

"Or worse," Illya muttered.

Bernie glanced at him nervously.

"What were they doing?" Napoleon insisted.

"They're planting bombs, all over town."

"What?" Charlotte asked.

"They're going to blow up the whole town," he told her seriously. "Unless you two give yourselves up by noon," he finished.

"And you were supposed to give us the message," Napoleon concluded.

"Well," Bernie hung his head. "I wasn't supposed to deliver it in person."

"Bernie, what are you talking about?" his grandmother demanded. "And what do those two men want Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin for so badly that they're willing to blow up the town?"

Bernie looked at Charlotte pleadingly, both of them knowing that their secret would soon be a secret no longer.

"We have a few differences," Napoleon explained diplomatically.

"That much is obvious. And you haven't answered my question, either. Where are you from?"

"We're from U.N.C.L.E., Mrs. Skinner." Solo confessed. The cat meowed again in the kitchen.

"I was afraid you might say that," their hostess sighed. "Bernie, do feed that cat of yours. She's been under foot all morning." Her grandson started to rise, but Illya's hand on his shoulder held him in his seat.

"I think the cat can wait until we hear Bernie's story about the bombs," Napoleon suggested. Bernie looked up at his captors, at where he knew the two very competent-looking agents kept their guns. Bernie started to sweat.

* * *

**= = = END Act 4**


	5. Chapter 5

**THE MILTON-FREEWATER AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**= = = Act 5 : "We're inspecting the drains . . . "**

* * *

"Shhhh, somebody's coming!" Napoleon hissed. Illya froze. Bernie peered out to see who it might be.

"Bernie, what're you doing there?" An older woman with a flowered hat and a clashing flowered dress stood peering at the three. Illya moved to hide the bomb he was dissecting. Napoleon stood up out of the shadow of the stairway to address their visitor.

"Uh, h-hello Mrs. Carson." Bernie stammered.

"We're looking for drains," Napoleon stepped in with a smile.

"Drains?" the woman asked.

"Yes." Napoleon paused to take a breath of air and inspiration. "Ah, we're with the State Water Board. We're inspecting the drains for organic obstructions."

"That doesn't sound too pleasant," she said a little vacuously. "And you're helping them, Bernie? That's nice. Will I see you tonight at the game?"

"Uh, yeah. I'll be there," Bernie mumbled.

She left. Bernie looked like he was going to faint and Napoleon shrugged, mildly surprised that he'd gotten by with such a stupid story.

"OK, Illya, get going," Napoleon instructed.

Illya let his breath out and resumed work on the explosive. He clipped a wire, stopping the timer. "Are all the bombs this type?" he asked Bernie, straightening up from his crouched position and tossing the now harmless explosive to Napoleon.

"I don't know. They wouldn't let me watch. I was supposed to look out for anybody wandering around and warn them."

"They probably are," Napoleon guessed.

"I hope so," Illya stated. "It'll be easier. Lead on, MacDuff," he instructed Bernie.

The next bomb was hidden at the base of a propane tank at the local service station. Napoleon and Bernie kept the station manager distracted while Illya went to work. When his partner hadn't appeared after a reasonable length of time, Napoleon left the manager to Bernie and went back to have a look.

"What, not done yet?" he asked softly.

Illya ignored him, concentrating on tracing a wire. Napoleon fell silent, watching him. After a few more minutes, Illya snipped the wire and let out a heavy sigh.

"What took you so long?" Napoleon ventured.

"It was a different type," Illya snapped. He stood up and stretched, un-kinking his back, and stalked to the truck. Napoleon picked up the bomb and, waving Bernie over, put it in the back of the truck with the other one.

The three of them worked steadily throughout the morning. Illya's temper improved as it became apparent that Boom-Boom had only used three different detonator designs.

"That's the sixth one," Napoleon mentioned as they walked back to the truck with their latest prize. He leaned casually on the side of the truck. "And they've all been timers."

"They go faster that way." Illya put the device in back with the others while Bernie cringed. He'd been assured many times that they were harmless with their detonators disconnected, but his nervousness increased as the pile in the back of his truck grew bigger.

"How long would you say it would have taken you to disarm them all if you had placed them ?" Napoleon asked his partner.

"Well, if I hadn't had to figure out how to disarm the first few, about two hours. Why?"

"All these bombs have been set to go off at twelve-thirty."

Illya caught Napoleon's line of thought. "I see. They never intended to disarm them whether we'd given ourselves up or not."

Bernie seemed aghast. "They were going to blow up the town anyway," he said more as a statement of fact than a question.

"Did you expect them to turn off their little toys once they had us?" Illya asked the Thrush disgustedly. The Russian didn't really think much of their guide. He was the kind of fodder an organization like Thrush used for its fetch-and-carry work. His type joined either out of naivete or greed; once they were in, they were stuck.

People only left Thrush in a horizontal position. Those who didn't have the proper streak of cruelty to really enjoy their work were usually tossed aside, or sometimes used as infantry. Canon fodder for U.N.C.L.E. to shoot at.

Illya didn't particularly feel any guilt shooting at people who were trying to kill him, but he didn't like the idea of doing Thrush's dirty work for them. He especially didn't care for people who were too stupid or lazy to find out, before they joined, what kind of organization Thrush really was.

"I guess I should have expected it," Bernie admitted guiltily. "Grandma used to tell me stories about when she was active in Thrush. When she started out they wanted to take over the world quietly. Nobody was supposed to know that there was a secret society running things when it happened. But then it was taken over by people who wanted to take over the world openly, so everybody could see 'em do it. She got tired of it and came here after Grandpa Skinner and my folks were killed."

"So you took over the family business," Napoleon stated.

Bernie nodded. "I'm low-level enough they don't pay much attention to me." He looked at the two almost pleadingly.

"I know I'm not smart, Mr. Solo," he admitted. "But I'm smart enough to know when I'm in trouble. I'm not all that loyal to Thrush, I'll help you guys all I can. I don't want anything happening to Grandma or Charlotte."

"If we don't want anything happening to everybody in this town, we'd better get to the rest of those bombs," Illya reminded. He didn't like confessions.

Napoleon glanced at his watch. "We've got two and-a-half hours till noon. How many more bombs, Bernie?"

"Uh," Bernie paused, trying to count. "Six. And I've got to be back by eleven," Bernie said. "They're expecting me. I'm supposed to meet them behind the high school."

"They are not, however, expecting us," Napoleon pointed out.

"Until noon," Illya glanced at his partner. The American nodded. They would finish disarming the bombs, then arrive at the rendezvous- a storage barn outside of town—early.

"We'll have just enough time to make our appointment," Napoleon said. "Let's go."

* * *

**= = = END Act 5**


	6. Chapter 6

**THE MILTON-FREEWATER AFFAIR**

by ardavenport and tlneill

* * *

**= = = Act 6 : "I think I prefer it to being turned into bags of onions."**

* * *

Napoleon pulled the U.N.C.L.E. sports car off the road, out of casual sight. He and Illya began walking toward the barn.

They had called Mr. Waverly as soon as Bernie had dropped them off at the car and driven to his appointment with the two other Thrush. Waverly had been quite interested in their report concerning Bernie, Charlotte and, most especially, the Thrush terminal. Even without top clearance access, it could be quite an asset to U.N.C.L.E. He updated their orders to include securing the terminal, and left the entire matter in their capable hands. Personally, Napoleon was a bit tired of always having such capable hands.

The pair split up, Illya scouting outside the building while Napoleon took a look inside. Napoleon opened the door, a bit un-cautiously, as Boom-Boom and Marlowe were down by the high school. He saw a clutter of farm machinery, just before something hard hit him on the head. He pitched forward, unconscious.

* * *

**= O = O = O = O =**

Illya finished his circuit of the barn. Finding nothing, he entered the barn to help Napoleon set up their trap. All thoughts of that particular plan fled, as he came face to face with Napoleon's sparring partner from the night before. Napoleon was lying on a stack of hay bales. His hands were bound behind his back with baling wire. Hammond gestured significantly in Solo's direction with his pistol. Illya looked from his partner to the Thrush. He set his Special on the floor, kicked it slightly toward Hammond, and resignedly placed his hands on his head.

"Now," Boom-Boom told the Russian, "we're going to stay right here until Marlowe gets back with Skinner."

Marlowe arrived shortly thereafter herding Bernie, his hands tied behind his back, in front of him. Napoleon stirred as Bernie was pushed down next to him on the hay. Marlowe busied himself tying Illya's hands.

Of all the things Illya had been tied up with, he liked wire the least. Granted that baling wire was better than the barbed wire preferred by a certain Central American Satrap leader, but it ranked far far below rope in Illya's book. Rope was much easier to wriggle out of, easier to cut, and not nearly so painful. There were ways to get out of it, though, and Illya set immediately to work finding the end of the wire to untwist it.

"Ah, welcome back Mr. Solo," Boom-Boom greeted the groggy American. "I was afraid I had hit you too hard, and I didn't want you to miss the show."

"Your concern is touching," Napoleon said, struggling to sit up.

"Not at all. You have, as I said before, caused me a lot of trouble. But," he continued, "you will be happy to know that I have decided not to kill you. Thrush Central will be quite forgiving of my past failures if I can bring you in intact."

"I'm sure they would," Napoleon agreed.

"Our gratitude is unbounded," Illya added sarcastically.

"You needn't waste any of your so-called gratitude, Mr. Kuryakin, since you're not going. I only need Mr. Solo. You and our incompetent Mr. Skinner here will have to stay. Marlowe," he signaled to his companion. "Go ahead."

While Hammond kept his eye on Napoleon, Marlowe finished tying Illya and Bernie hand and foot and dumped them on an upward-sloping conveyer belt.

"I'm sure Mr. Skinner can identify this piece of machinery. I can't. But I think that when you get to the top of this thing and it dumps you in, you'll be processed into bags of onions or potatoes or something like that," Hammond gloated. He climbed up to the driver's seat and started the motor. After a minor search, he found the proper switch and turned on the machine. He then collected his partner who herded Napoleon out with them.

"Not very original," Illya muttered to himself. Then he turned his head to his fellow prisoner who'd been quietly panicking by himself. "Bernie!"

"Huh?"

"We're going to roll off the conveyer belt," Illya told him. The relative calm of the U.N.C.L.E. agent penetrated Bernie's brain and it suddenly dawned on him that Illya did not intend to die.

"Snap out of it Bernie. We're getting out of here."

"How?" Bernie was astounded. He'd seen people executed by Thrush before and no amount of begging or pleading had ever kept the ax from falling. The idea that he might escape on his own hadn't quite occurred to him.

"In case you hadn't noticed," Illya answered, "in order for us to be dumped off this thing, they couldn't tie us to the conveyer belt. We're going to roll off."

Bernie looked over the side. "We'll be killed!"

Illya looked over his side and saw lots of greasy, rusty, pointy machinery below. "It's not a very pleasant alternative," Illya agreed. "But I think I prefer it to being turned into bags of onions."

"It's a hay baler," Bernie told him.

"Hay bales then," Illya conceded. "All the more reason to get off." The flat part of the conveyer belt ended and the incline started to carry them higher.

"Bernie!" Charlotte cried, suddenly appearing from a side door and running over to turn the machine off.

"Charlotte?" Bernie whispered, astounded. Not quite as astounded as Illya, who distinctly remembered Napoleon ordering her and Mrs. Skinner to stay put at the house. But now was not the time to quibble about things like that.

"Legs first," the agent told Charlotte who was now engaged in clipping the wire that bound Bernie. "And make it fast," he added as she moved to Illya. "If I know our friend out there, he's likely to blow this whole barn apart in a few seconds."

They climbed down carefully, Charlotte carefully helping Bernie with his grandmother's supervision. Illya noted this a little disgustedly, scrambled down by himself, then hurried the two women to the exit. Illya paused at the door. "Scream," he told Bernie.

"What?"

"Scream like you're being turned into a bale of hay."

"Oh." Bernie's scream was weak and Illya nearly drowned him out, but it must have fooled Boom-Boom, because the barn blew up behind them just as they got clear. Illya ducked as a shingle flew by his shoulder.

The agent took the Thrush rifle that Charlotte carried. He wondered what Mrs. Skinner intended to do with the Tommy-gun she held. "Go get the truck," he told Bernie, "and block the road to the freeway." Bernie took off, wisely keeping the flaming barn between himself and the other Thrush. "You two stay here." Illya ran around to the front of the barn. Charlotte and Mrs. Skinner glanced at each other and started off in the opposite direction.

"Napoleon! Get down!" Illya opened fire in the general direction of the Thrush's car, before finding a convenient clump of bushes and settling down for more accurate shots.

* * *

**= O = O = O = O =**

Napoleon, seated in the back seat of the Thrush's car, watched the barn explode with a mixture of emotions. Baling wire would be extremely difficult and time-consuming for his partner to wriggle out of, but the scream from the barn had sounded a) unconvincing, and b) not very much like Illya. So he was not terribly surprised when he saw Illya come racing around the corner of the barn, hollering a warning to duck. Napoleon ducked, just in time. A hail of bullets whined through the air and struck the car.

The two Thrush dropped, pulled their guns out and returned fire.

Sporadic shooting followed for a few more seconds. Lovejoy gave a small cry and Napoleon saw him fall. Silence. Napoleon struggled to sit up far enough to see why Illya had stopped shooting.

Hammond crouched and bent over Lovejoy, who, in Napoleon's opinion, was far past caring. The remaining Thrush cast a wary glance to his right and stood up, facing the car. Napoleon again wondered why Illya wasn't shooting.

"Your partner's gone, Solo. Lovejoy got him, just before Kuryakin got him." He took a firm aim on the U.N.C.L.E. agent. "So it's just you and me now, Solo. There's just one more detail to take care of. If he," he motioned with his free hand to where Illya was, no doubt, lying, "got out, then Skinner's loose somewhere too.

"Now you can sit quietly while I tie your feet up so you don't go wandering off while I take care of Skinner. Or I can shoot you in the foot."

Napoleon sighed and shrugged as well as he could with his hands wired behind him. "Since you put it that way," he agreed and lamely offered his unresisting feet.

Hammond securely bound his ankles together with some rope from the front seat. Then he tied Napoleon's feet to the door handle of the car.

"You shouldn't be able to get out of that too quickly," Hammond said, holstering his gun. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Napoleon looked out the still-open car door and then at his captor. "Good-bye," he said and dove for the floor of the car, just before Mrs. Skinner's erratic machine-gun fire cut Hammond down.

Charlotte came running up. "Are you all right?" she asked breathlessly, nervously skirting Hammond's body.

"I'm fine. Check Illya, He's been hit." Solo told her.

"Are you sure?" She climbed in and tried unsuccessfully to pull him up to a sitting position. With her help he sat up into a contorted 'V' with his feet still tied to the car door, his weight resting on his tail bone and his shoulders squashed between the front and back seat.

"Go. Help. Illya," Napoleon told her slowly and firmly.

"Uh, right." Charlotte left hastily before she did any more damage.

Napoleon tried twisting into an even semi-comfortable position and found that there just weren't any. He watched Mrs. Skinner, still carrying her sub-machine gun, approach the car. He supposed that now that Hammond and Lovejoy were dead, the affair was finally ended. But he didn't really feel as if anything was concluded. His twisted legs and shoulders ached. He sincerely hoped that Illya wasn't dead.

Mrs. Skinner finally made it to the car. She had an old woman's walk that favored her hips-not very fast.

"I really enjoyed that, Mr. Solo," she beamed, out of breath. Napoleon glanced down at Hammond's bullet-ridden corpse and wondered what the local sheriff was going to say.

"Uh, Mrs. Skinner, I'm a little tied up right now. Could you . . . ?"

"Oh, of course! How callous of me." She lowered herself to the car seat and began to fumble with the ropes. She had just managed to free his feet when Napoleon heard Bernie drive up in his truck. He jumped out and ran into and out of Napoleon's line of sight.

A moment later Charlotte and Bernie, supporting Illya, came up. Illya held a bloodied handkerchief to his temple and looked as if he didn't quite know where he was.

"I think we'd better get him to a doctor," Charlotte worried.

Napoleon sighed and let his feet drop.

* * *

**= O = O = O = O =**

"It has been nice." Mrs. Skinner patted Illya's hand. "We're going on to Boise with you; did Mr. Solo tell you?'

"Yes Ma'am. Mr. Solo, Mr. Wimser and Bernie are loading the terminal into the trailer right now." He sat back, resting his bandaged head on Mrs. Skinner's living room sofa.

"I'm so glad you've recovered." She uncovered his hand and patted him on the cheek. Illya sat quietly and endured. "Ah, it's such a pity. Moves like this aren't very easy at my age, you know."

"No, Ma'am. But U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters in Boise will be handling everything for you. You'll be given new identities and enough money to get started in another place."

"Yes." Mrs. Skinner smiled sentimentally. "Isn't it romantic. I eloped myself, with dear Eugene. That was when I joined Thrush. It was so exciting then."

"Eloped?" Illya questioned, a little confused.

"Well, Bernie and Charlotte, of course. Oh, Mr. Kuryakin, surely you know about that sort of thing." She indicated the wedding band on his left hand.

"I'm sure that U.N.C.L.E. Boise will be able to provide whatever services are required," he went on, going back to the earlier subject.

"That's quite alright, dear. I understand."

Illya wasn't entirely sure what she thought she understood but he decided not to delve into it.

"Grandma!" Bernie called. He entered with Charlotte and Napoleon, who was futilely trying to wipe a grease stain from his cuff.

"We're all packed up. Ready to go?" Napoleon asked.

"I suppose so." Mrs. Skinner looked about the house sadly. "It's such a shame to leave it all behind. Thrush was awfully good to us in its heyday."

"I'm sure U.N.C.L.E. can more than compensate you for your losses," Napoleon assured her.

"I suppose it'll have to do. Oh, please don't take anything I say personally, dears. You two have been absolutely charming. But I've just never cared for U.N.C.L.E.; it can be so pretentious. That General Eisenhower isn't still in charge, is he?"

"Ah, no Ma'am, he's dead," Napoleon answered.

"Well, there's one good thing to say about it at least."

"We'd better be going," Illya reminded them. They left the house, Mrs Skinner carefully locking the door behind them. Bob Wimser, one of the agents from Pendleton who was filling in for Charlotte Goldstein, waved them to the cars.

"You're all set to go. And don't worry about a thing, honey, I got everything covered here with the local Sheriff. The front office and me can take care of it."

"Thanks, Bob," Charlotte mumbled. She didn't care for the man very much.

"S'pity I wasn't here to see you boys operate. Must've been something." He opened a door for Illya, who rather looked (and felt) like a reject from a battlefield-forehead bandage and all.

"That's one way of putting it," Illya muttered, settling into the passenger seat. Napoleon finished his driving instructions to Bernie, sauntered back to the U.N.C.L.E car, and climbed into the driver's seat.

He headed for Boise with Bernie's truck close behind. Illya picked up a small stack of paper from the floor of the car and leafed through Charlotte's yearly report. It had survived the explosion of her trailer because she'd been doing it over at Bernie's house; after all, Bernie had had all the information she needed. It was titled All You Never Wanted to Know About Thrush-Sponsored Survivalists in Eastern Oregon.

"She is thorough, whatever else she may not be," Illya commented. "Mrs. Skinner told me that Bernie and Charlotte were eloping in Boise."

"I wonder if they know that," Napoleon answered.

Illya smiled briefly and put the report aside. He picked up the Thrush computer game manual and opened it to the page he wanted- 'Anarchy on the High Seas'-and began to read.

* * *

**= = = END**

* * *

**Note:**This story, by authors A.R. Davenport and T. L Neill, was first published in the print fanzine, '11 & 2' No. 1, in September 1986.

**Disclaimer: **All characters and the U.N.C.L.E. universe belong to Arena Productions and MGM Television. I am just playing in their sandbox.


End file.
